


Circumstances

by versigny



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Closet Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, To Be Continued, i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versigny/pseuds/versigny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't like you. He doesn't like you. He doesn't like you.</p><p>Doesn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I said,” he hissed against your mouth, “I _don’t like you_  and I _never will_.”

The confusing thing about his statement, you think fuzzily, is that for someone who doesn’t like you, he kisses you better than anyone else who says they _did_. It’s easy to forget he’s primarily a singer when his hips are drilling into yours more like a sinner’s, and his mouth, hungry and sweet, devours yours without a melody or rhyme.

You knew what had happened – the last song he’d submitted had gotten ripped apart at the chorus (what he believed to be the strongest part of it), and the moment you overheard the news from Mingyu, you were hit with a stab of dread that pooled between your legs. Ji– _Woozi_ , the vocalist in a group of a company that had begrudgingly taken you on as an intern, had met you in a foul mood, and it destroyed his first impression of you. Like some sort of sick, cosmic joke, you always happened to run into him when he was less-than-cheerful, and one day… one day it just sort of happened. He’d said some things that would’ve made your grandmother faint, and then the next second you were dragged into a broom closet with teeth on your throat and your jeans yanked down out of the way forcibly enough for his hands to find what they wanted.

And then it happened again. And again. And now, whenever Woozi was upset, he sought you out; his own personal little stress ball he could despise all he wanted.

The rough, slow grind is agonizing in the way it makes the pressure build up in your core, thick and heavy and desperate to burst. Time passes like syrup, making your senses foggy and forgetful of anything but the scent of his sweat and clean clothes and musk and his merciless touch, and the worst of it is that you have to be careful not to say the wrong thing.

Like his real name. Or anything that implied gratitude. Or anything that wasn’t a breathy moan or soft squeak of arousal.

But apparently you needed a reminder.

“Don’t ever – _ever_  – misunderst-stand me,” he croons through his teeth, craning over you with bloated pupils and splotchy pink cheeks, skin shimmering with exertion. His grip on your hips tightens selfishly, rutting you back into him, and you bite your lip to withhold a single sound. “You’re… _nnnh_ … nothing… to me… N-not… o-oh, _fuck_ –”

You’re ashamed of the fact that the sight of his eyes wincing, jaw trembling, face contorted into a picture of unconscionable pleasure, his voice hitching to it’s most deliciously high and quiet moan, is always what triggers your own release. The humiliation and what it does to you is mortifying.

You twist your head down to muffle the sound of his name from your lips.

“J- _Jihoon_.”

The pulsing, wild and addicting, slowly subsides in your belly and leaves you trembling and weak-kneed. Jihoo– Woozi is no better.

And just like he does, every single time, he lingers. He keeps you pressed against the wall, his arms framing you, and his fingers prying your chin up, demanding your attention so that he may look at you. His expression is always unreadable – nothing betrays whatever he hides in the depths of his glazed eyes.

And just when you think he’s going to kiss you, he breaks away, withdrawing like you’re a hot coal and he’s laden with third degree burns. He leaves without a single word said.

He doesn’t like you, you remind yourself, trying to quiet your racing heart that aches for him to come back.

He doesn’t like you at all.


	2. Chapter 2

_He doesn’t hate me_ , you think incoherently to yourself in your bed, twisting and writhing in your sheets. You’re gasping for air and your vision is all-black with little dots of light and your insides are clenching and leaving you groggy with pleasure. “He… d-doesn’t… hate me…”

Who?

 _Lee J-Jih **oon**_ –

Everything crushed together in a single blinding peak, and you let out a silent, sharp gasp as your orgasm rushed over you.

–

It could have been minutes or hours that you laid there in your tiny apartment, torn between the afterglow of an incredible orgasm and sitting on the verge of tears.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, you pried the sheets off your sweaty, half-dressed body and wandered to your cramped bathroom to clean up, sniffling as you did. You couldn’t even look your reflection in the eye. You were too ashamed.

Back home, out in the country, your family and friends all thought you were glamorously living it up in Seoul – working for a prestigious entertainment company, living on your own, getting to meet some of the biggest names in the music industry.

And here you were instead, in an apartment that constantly had a draft and terrible water pressure, working for a company where most of your supervisors didn’t know your name, and in some sort of crazy, incomprehensible cycle of fucking one of their star idols whenever he decided he needed to take the edge off his stressful days.

One of their star idols, who had never even smiled at you. Who had only ever insulted you, subtly and snidely and otherwise.

Whom you couldn’t stop from masturbating to in the dead of night, alone, when it had been too long between your _sessions_.

Despite yourself, you laughed miserably, an absent tear or two rolling down your cheek in the process as you cleaned yourself up with a towel. Woozi was as deceptive as they came. When fans gushed about him being such a small, precious thing, their sweet cinnamon roll, their cute Busan fairy, you almost went nuts with the sheer incredulity that would rupture in your mind. The explosive weight of the fact that you knew differently and the contrast between the truth and the lie was so massive weighed on you like an atom bomb sometimes.

But you were an intern. A very small, very replaceable intern. And there was nothing you could do, except hate yourself for relishing it and being attracted to him anyway.

That wasn’t true though, was it?

You could do something.

As you shut off the water, the thought struck you, paralyzing you with fear and apprehension. Wide-eyed, you met your reflection in the mirror, taking in your wet eyelashes and splotchy cheeks and pink nose, hair damply sticking to your face. You were a complete mess.

The bigger problem, you realized with thick dread, was you didn’t know if you _wanted_ to do that something.

–

It’s exactly one week before you see him again.

Running into him in the hall – literally – knocks the air out of you and you hit the tiled floored with an _oomph_ , papers scattering everywhere as you splutter out an apology. When you look up and see a cropping of pastel hair and narrowed eyes, the blood leaves your face.

“Woozi,” you croak numbly.

The glowering that graces his features is horrible and unfair the way it makes your insides tremble with anticipation and need.

He takes one moment to glance around, making sure nobody’s there to witness his sordid behavior. And then he’s leaning down, snatching you up by the wrists and half-dragging you to the restroom around the corner.

“Th-the… papers,” you protest weakly, looking back at the mess someone is bound to find in the hallway.

Woozi doesn’t so much as blink in response.

The door is locked behind you. For someone so slight, he’s made of iron and steel, anchoring your frame against the cold tiles as he shoves his tongue past your lips and against yours fervently. He takes the kiss from you, and he tastes like peppermint and saliva and Jihoon, Jihoon, _Jihoon_ , and the gaping hole in your chest closes a little bit more, filling itself with him. His teeth clash against your swollen lips – he’s a messy kisser when he’s in a rush – and you gasp into his mouth when his prying hands close around your breasts, squeezing and groping. His palms dig in and his fingers tighten and it almost hurts, but you’re quickly distracted by the denim pressing into your crotch, hard and unyielding.

This is the Woozi you know.

Each swivel of his hips is a long, slow grind that leaves you inches from crying out. His dry-fucking is hard and calculated, leaving your brain blipping between hot ecstasy and terror at _what if someone finds all those papers?_  and you hope this is at least doing something for him, because it’s only tearing you a little bit more apart.

“Fuck,” you cry out softly, unable to keep silent any longer. Short, staccato whimpers escape your throat with each thrust, and you find yourself pressing back to meet each of them in their roughness. The denim rubs insistently against your clit past your wet underwear, and the sensation is raw and exquisite but it’s too shallow, not deep enough to get you to release–

“Oh _fuck_ ,” you choke under your breath, too lightheaded to think straight. Helpless, your fingers cling unsurely to his shirt and maybe his mood isn’t so bad, because he allows it.

But you still can’t cum. You can only listen to his rasps, smell the sex and heat as he lets himself get closer to that edge.

You curse one more time before it’s too much. After last night’s epiphany, your mental walls had been crumbling and the onslaught of his hips on yours was just enough to tear them down the rest of the way in a humiliating display of just crying. You never let go of him, just sniffle and gasp and keep swearing up and down as muffledly as you can as you try to angle yourself closer to him.

It’s not full-blown sobbing – just frustrated tears that drive you to want something you can’t have. And when Jihoon realizes that your face is wet, his pace falters momentarily. You can’t see his reaction properly in the dark, but you do hear a low noise from him that you can’t be sure if it’s pleased or bothered. Even less expected is his hand coming to cup your chin, firmly holding your head still against the wall as he leans in so fucking close his breath ghosts your jawline before you feel something swipe up the damp tracks on your cheek.

Jihoon’s thrusts come harder after that, and it takes you a second to grasp that he’s licking up the tears and the jolt it brings sends your body trembling over the edge into sharp bliss. Your orgasm leaves you unable to hold yourself up, and you can almost imagine him laughing softly at your weakness except his voice strangles and pitches and he whispers _fuck, fuck, **fuck**_ as he ruts hard enough to bruise and you feel the warmth of his seed melt across your tummy.

Both of you collapsed slowly to the floor in a pile that would have been kind of cute in other circumstances. Jihoon’s lilac hair stuck to his sweaty temples and his breathing was thick and the only thing you could make out aside from your own wild heartbeat in your head. Tiredly, you tried to nudge yourself away just enough to not give him any wrong impression, but he just put more of his weight on you and tilted his head to make eye contact.

Still exhausted, he didn’t say anything – just stared at you the same way he always did afterwards. You knew better than to hope he might kiss you–

His lips crushed over yours in a forceful, demanding kiss, tongue sweeping across yours in a last taste before breaking away and licking the saliva from his lips. His eyes were unspeakably dark as he exhaled and swallowed, deciding on how to say what he was going to say.

Ji– _Woozi_ settles on a final, “Be back here tomorrow at the same time.”

He doesn’t help you up, or say anything else; he just picks himself up and puts himself together enough to make it to a restroom or the dorms, you suppose, before sliding out the door with one last glance at your pathetic form. You couldn’t speak even if you wanted to, couldn’t say goodbye or agree or refuse.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, dizzy from the afterglow of pleasure and onslaught of emotion. You had even forgotten about the papers.

–

The papers are in a neat pile when you make it back out into the hall, dried cum sticking to your skin and hidden under your clothes and cardigan.

You curse and curse the blush that builds in your neck all day long, and try not to think about tomorrow. You tell yourself, over and over, that you’re not going.

 

But you already know you’re lying. You already know.


End file.
